


sarà perché ti amo

by luce_incanto



Category: Festival di Sanremo RPF
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, M/M, amarello, not it's not a liquor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22648393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luce_incanto/pseuds/luce_incanto
Summary: The festival brings surprises to everyone, and isn't it said that a couple of a good heels can change your life?
Relationships: Amadeus | Amedeo Sebastiani/Rosario Fiorello
Kudos: 17





	sarà perché ti amo

**Author's Note:**

> oh wow, are they both married? good thing they are not in this au! xD

“But why did you take off your dress so quickly? I didn’t even get a selfie with Maria!” says Amadeus, seeing the blond wig abandoned carelessly on the floor of the dressing room, because Fiorello had to change clothes in hurry. Everything is being done in a hurry today, one line after another, one song and then next, too little time to step back and take a breath. He’s exhausted, but at least the main part is over, the stage is silent, and he can have ten minutes to recuperate before tending to journalists.

Then he might have a couple of hours of sleep, only for everything to start again in the morning. What did he even think about, agreeing to this madness? He is too old to be functioning on no sleep and sheer enthusiasm on live television, dealing with a thousand little crises every minute and trying not to panic. At least he has someone by his side whom he can always trust to have his back, and that thought fills him with gratitude and affection every time he looks at the man in front of him. He doesn’t voice it, though, because telling Fiorello he’s invaluable only makes him insufferable instead.

Fiorello rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I knew you’d appreciate me being in this dress for the rest of the evening – “

“The audience would, too!”

“- but those heels were killing me, I’d have to express my sincere admiration to Maria, having to deal with all those stairs on the stage for all those years…” Amadeus lets out a laugh and sighs wearily, spacing out a bit while Fiorello launches into a monologue about how they all should sing praises to women for never complaining about such things as bra bones piercing their poor bodies, heels slipping on the stage and something else, very important without doubt. It’s like he’s not tired of talking at all, even after those five hours, still ready to fill the silence with words, words, words, some of them nonsensical, others surprisingly deep. Amadeus is used to this, and unlike others he can very clearly see how exhausted his friend is – but they both cannot afford to collapse right now, so if Fiore’s way of coping is with _more_ talking, he will sit here and listen. “…but anyway, we have a little time, I can get this wig back on and make this selfie,” continues meanwhile Fiorello, touching his shoulder to capture his attention. “If you want it so much.”

Amadeus stares at him for a couple of seconds, uncomprehending.

“Really? I thought it takes time.”

“No, why should it, it’s just a change of clothes and a wig, I’m not a drag queen, Ama, I don’t have to put on makeup for two hours and shade the hairline.”

“Ah, so that’s what was missing, the makeup!”

The fact that he _wanted_ Fiorello to wear that thing again kind of confused him. It might be the consequence of his brain melting down from all those lights and cameras on the stage, but he really came in here just to joke about this selfie, didn’t he? And with a bit of a hope that Fiore would offer what he just did, to put on the dress one more time, just for him.

Fiorello laughs, lifts the wig from the floor, shaking it in a futile attempt to make it look more presentable.

“Go, go,” he says, seeing Amadeus watch him with interest. “Ladies don’t let anyone watch them dress, don’t you know that it’s when the magic happens? Can’t let you learn all my tricks, Ama, _go_.”

“Ladies don’t talk as much as you do,” Amadeus only has the chance to say, until he’s being pushed out of the dressing room into the crowded corridor. 

It’s not an easy job to transform into a woman, Fiorello knows it well, but that’s not what he’s trying to do. A parody is a very different thing, so when he stepped down the stairs on the Ariston stage, he didn’t even try to walk as woman would, or to put on makeup to look like one. But now he’s doing something else – _what is he doing? –_ so, after checking his hair and leaving his room, he steals a tube of red lipstick from someone’s carelessly abandoned cosmetics bag. Might be a light-headed girl or might be Achille Lauro, you never know those days in Sanremo. 

It’s funny how all those tired people immediately snap out of their sleepy stupor as soon as he smiles at them going down the corridor, as soon as they see that he’s in a dress and heels _again_ and start laughing. He feels a bit like a clown for all of this, but that’s not the first time he does and that’s not the worst feeling, either; at least no one asks him _why_ he’s dressed like that _,_ because people somehow assume he has reasons for all the stupid shit he’s doing. He usually does. He maybe does this time, too, but he would prefer not to voice them, silently letting another blonde help him paint his lips in a vibrant color. Girls have to help each other out in times of crisis, right?

He does at least twenty selfies until he reaches the place where he’s most likely to find Amadeus, chatting with technicians. His friend turns at his greeting without smile, visibly tired, looks him up and down, pausing at lipstick, and then breaks down into laughter, bending over. Just like on stage today.

Fiorello allows himself a small proud smile. He likes seeing people react to his jokes, he likes it even more to watch _Amadeus_ react, because he never disappoints. He gets it, gets his jokes, gets _him_ , and his fits of laughter are the best reward, in front of millions of watchers or in private.

Sometimes he does crazy shit only to see this awed expression on his face, disbelieving and delighted at the same time, the same Amadeus had when he came down the stairs earlier this evening. A spark of appreciation might have been his imagination… but no, unless he’s imagining it again.

“So, I heard you wanted a photo with me-e,” he creaks out, making the _Maria_ voice again, and someone films him do it and then bow to the camera, but Amadeus only rubs away his tears of laughter, nodding.

“It’s dark in here, let’s go to my room,” he says, taking him by the hand, and Fiorello makes a dramatic gasp.

“To your room, and in such a late hour? What kind of a lady do you think I am?”

They are followed by laughter all the way to the door, and Fiorello can’t help but bat his eyelashes at everyone who takes photos. Even in the dark, some of those might be good and he’d need one for his portfolio, to put right under his brand new _woman impersonation_ skill. Who knows, maybe he’ll get invited to Drag Race Italy when it finally happens. As a host, of course. 

The door closes behind him and he starts laughing, too.

“Oh goodness, maybe I should think of doing it more often, just all this _attention.”_

Amadeus lets out a laugh and turns the lock on the door. He doesn’t really know why, maybe it’s an automatic gesture, but then again – he doesn’t have a habit of locking in. Fiorello doesn’t notice, adjusting his wig in the mirror.

Amadeus didn’t really think he would do all this again, the heels and the skirt, black tights, smooth on his legs (for some reason he remembers it well, the sensation under his fingers, smooth and warm, even though the touch lasted only for a couple of seconds, until Fiorello pushed his hand away, adjusting his skirt demurely), and is this lipstick on his face? He didn’t need it _all_ for a stupid selfie, he could’ve just worn the wig and maybe the jacket, too. But he still did it.

Lipstick for some reason really catches his eye, bright, bold.

Fiorello smiles in the mirror, then turns back, showing off coquettishly. Makes a couple of steps towards him, and then Amadeus notices.

“You actually _can_ walk in those things, can you?” he asks, a little awed, cause those heels look high, not as high as most of the girls here wear, yes, but still substantial.

“Oh, so you doubted me? I am a _professional,”_ says Fiore, who’s, judging by the look in his eyes, really enjoying the performance. It’s not surprising, he likes being the center of attention more than anything, commanding it the moment he walks onto the stage or into the room; it’s just the way he is, and Amadeus likes being his audience.

Likes being his _sole_ audience even more.

He swallows and takes out his phone.

“Okay, let’s do it then,” he says, and comes closer, until they both can fit into the screen of his phone. Fiorello makes a quick smile and a couple of faces, then kisses him on the cheek, leaving traces of lipstick here, then looks critically at the pictures.

“No, that won’t do,” he says, loosening the top button of his blouse. He’s wearing something under that, and is that _a woman’s bra?_ “Too boring, and you can’t even see my dress, and heels, why am I even wearing them then… no, let’s try something else.” Amadeus wants to say something, but his jaw snaps back with a clank, when Fiorello continues. “Get on your knees.”

 _“What?”_ he asks, but still does it, with a wary smile on his face. Fiore sometimes does that, takes control of the situation when he feels like he needs to, when he thinks he’s got more expertise or experience or whatever; Amadeus felt it on himself recently when they rehearsed a song together for the final evening’s opening. He doesn’t mind it, actually, although he is a little worried about what kind of ideas his friend has in his head, too blonde right now for thinking clearly.

Fiorello puts his heel on his shoulder, swaying dangerously.

“Now that’s a much more interesting picture,” he murmurs, and Amadeus tries to find the camera angle, so that his face can be seen, and the shoe perched on his shoulder, and Fiore’s face somewhere up, a blonde blur. _It’s not a good idea,_ he wants to say, but for some reason he doesn’t. It’s a very bad idea, truly, where did he even get it, in some Vogue photoshoot? The picture _maybe_ could look good if someone else took it, standing in front of them, but from the selfie angle it just looks confusing. But funny, he has to admit, the hysterical kind of funny, which Fiorello enjoys most of all. “Female domination and all that, fits the theme of your festival, no?” he adds right on time with Amadeus’ thoughts and they both chuckle.

“Don’t make this joke on stage _please.”_

He feels the heel dig a little deeper.

“Ow, stop it, if you want to stomp me with your feet, please wait until the festival is over, at least!”

Fiorello laughs somewhere from above.

“Help me, I can’t stand on one heel, and if I fall, _you’ll_ be explaining why your friend has a black eye.”

Amadeus sighs and puts a hand on his foot, holding it by the ankle, and again this odd sensation is all he can think about, warm skin under his fingers, but it’s not a woman’s leg, it’s Fiore’s and his sudden desire to run fingers up and down is hard to explain. Maybe, curiosity? Just an interest as to why did he put so much care into a simple parody, and why was he so willing to repeat it for him.

Just for the photo, yes, but also for _him._

Fiorello curses and sways on his legs, trying not to lose his balance, and Amadeus steadies him, snaps one more picture, then caresses his ankle with his thumb, a soothing gesture, but Fiorello tenses up for some reason.

“One more picture?” Amadeus asks, looking up at him, trying to look up _at him,_ not up his skirt. He isn’t in the best position to do that.

“Ah yes,” Fiorello replies with a strange smile on his painted lips. “Should be something… eye-catching.”

Amadeus returns his smile and lifts his phone a little, trying to find a new angle. Maybe he’ll still have something to post later, people might like it, they sure did enjoy the earlier performance.

“Kiss my ankle,” says Fiorello meanwhile, an order so soft he doesn’t comprehend it at first, but it still sounds like an order.

Amadeus stills for a moment.

And then he finally gets it, finally understands why he locked the door and why Fiorello put on this dress for him – it’s so he could do _this,_ something he wanted from the first moment he tried to get under his skirt on the stage, like a teenage boy with a crush. Jokes are jokes only until they aren’t.

He presses his lips to Fiore’s ankle, as told, and hears him sigh above, feels the hard warm bone under his lips, feels his fingers climbing higher, as if they suddenly got a mind of their own. Snaps a picture, not looking on the screen at all, because he’s too busy kissing the leg in his arm, like a mad man. He turns a bit on his knees, his lips going higher, and the smoothness under his hands drives him crazy, but what’s even better is that Fiore is finally _silent,_ only sighing above him, fingers in his hair. It’s madness, complete madness, Amadeus doesn’t even know what he’s doing – _has he ever, after that fateful moment on the stage? –_ but he enjoys it so much, he doesn’t want to stop. And Fiorello enjoys it too, judging by the noises he makes and the trembling of his legs, which is an additional bonus, only spurring him on.

They’ve always been like this, feeding off each other’s energy, laughing at each other’s jokes, finishing each other’s steps, only now it suddenly took a whole new turn, and it’s so damn exciting he cannot catch his breath. He tightens his fingers and lets himself go. 

_“Ah, Ama – “_ starts Fiorello with another content sigh, when he finds himself with both legs back on the floor, and Amadeus pushes him towards the wall or the table, _something,_ with little gentleness.

And then someone tries the door, finds it closed and knocks. Loudly.

They both freeze, reality rushing back.

“Amadeus, we’re waiting for you to start, are you coming?” says someone behind the door, and he has to clear his throat before answering.

“Yes, sorry, I’ll be in a minute.”

He gets up, brushing his knees off, and keeps his eyes down, suddenly seeing the abandoned phone on the floor. Picks it up, the last photo still on the screen, a bit smudged. He wasn’t really concentrating on making it good.

He smiles sheepishly and clears his throat again to say that he’s going to go. Whatever that was just now, he needs to be somewhere else, and maybe they both need to clear their heads a bit. He lingers for a moment, because his gaze is drawn in by that lipstick again.

“Wait a second,” Fiorello says, stepping closer to him and taking the phone from his hand. “I reconsidered. I want one more selfie. Have to make the most of this chance, right?”

Amadeus isn’t quite sure he’s still talking about stupid pictures, but before he can object or ask, he’s being tugged by his tie even closer, and in a small, confused heartbeat Fiorello is kissing him, and not like he does with _friends,_ oh no, ladies shouldn’t kiss like that.

He says that out loud, between two kisses, and Fiore laughs softly against his lips and steps even closer.

And he’s definitely not a lady, both of them can feel that.

He makes another photo and steps back.

“Which one should I publish?” he muses with a satisfied, crazy smile, as he flips through the pictures on his phone, and Amadeus takes it away from him with an eyeroll.

“The first one. Others are… for me. And don’t throw away that dress… just in case.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Fiorello mumbles and smiles at him.

Amadeus looks at his lips, smudged now, and thinks that the same bright traces are on him too now, and that the journalists will probably kill him if he comes in late and with lipstick on his face.

He thinks it might be worth it.


End file.
